


Dead Sea and Withered Land

by heartstone



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Don't Make This Tea At Home, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mairon Doesn't Care Though, Melkor Is Always So Moody, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 07:51:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18149132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstone/pseuds/heartstone
Summary: He hummed in subdued murmurs a promise of fortune, lulling no louder than the distant thunder, no more disturbing then the light air. He was not only His black despair, the marring of His body, the spent fragments of His soul. He only needed to be reminded.***Mairon sees only beauty.





	Dead Sea and Withered Land

The light from the window was the meagre grey of dampened ash streaked by the rain falling from the haughty gloom of the storm clouds, the chamber resounding with the heavy patters of patinated silver. The thin light, weak to that of the fire, illumined Him as He stood facing the diamond panes of thin glass, casting the sharp contour of His jaw and the severe line of His nose in shades of pallid ivory, of bone bleached by sun. Cold and still, as if cut from the white orb of the moon, Mairon knew that appearances such as His were deceiving. He trembled slightly, anyhow, breaking the illusion of adamant marble for delicate hoarfrost- but perhaps it was only the shift of pale charcoal over the shards of starlight.

 

The kettle whistled for his attention softly, sound melting with the breath of the chill winter gales. Mairon turned, removing it from the mouth of the fireplace, settling it on its holder as he continued to prepare the balm. The room filled with the fragrance of the brew as the steaming water sent whips of vapor twisting, fading into ghostly shapes before they reached the rafters and dissipated. The scent of poppy and belladonna tea was soporific, but bitter, and the honey gave it only an ephemeral sweetness. He set it aside and began to crush the lacy leaves of athelas in lavender oil, and it filled the room with the floral memory of summer, so at odds with the draught in the room. His pestle clinked, clear and piercing among the thousand droplets of rain, disturbing Melkor at last from His brooding reverie.

 

He turned without a word, soundless as a passing wraith but too large, too _imposing_ be be mistaken for one. The _tap, tap_ of a cane could be heard against the wood, then muffled against the rug. There was something painfully physical about Him, something raw, rough like an unpolished gem or metal ore. The low light seemed to be strained towards Him in invisible currents only to suddenly be smothered in the shadow that lingered close to His skin: but even this veil of enchantment made Him more real to Mairon, more dense, the intense black of deep space contained within by the crystalline frailty of the atmosphere. Melkor was dark matter made manifest for mortal perception, imbued with an arcane energy whose true workings none yet understood and whose influence was more powerful than gravity.

 

Mairon began to mix the tea and the pulp of crushed leaves, folding them together with algin until it smoothed into a gentle lotion, trying to mind his gaze as that sombre shade set aside His cane against the night-table and began to undo the fastenings of His burdensome cape. Frayed and faded, it may have once been some vestment or royal adornment: gold shimmered slightly from the pile of the devoré, dull with age. It hung heavy about His shoulders like it was woven with lead, and its voluminous folds seemed at odds with the ragged appearance of the garment. It shifted unnaturally about Him, as if moving with life of its own, pooling at His bare feet like spilt ink and blending in with the waves of His long, silken hair so that He seemed engulfed in a mortician’s shroud.

 

He remembered with sudden grief the first time he had peered beneath that heavy hem, on how loath Melkor had been to that unmasking. He could not hide it from Mairon forever, nor could His pride hide the flicker of shame, that tense vulnerability. Even still those intrusions plagued His features- for what shame was there to be had, when He had done no wrong, what vulnerability when there was no threat of harm? He would make this balm until his hands bled if only he could soothe completely those unneeded instincts, smooth away those deepened wrinkles of panic.

 

The last clasp fell open and slowly, carefully, Melkor shook it from His shoulders. He learned not to help Him with it- it wounded Him more to be aided with its removal then for the fabric to catch on what was revealed underneath. Mairon set aside the stirring spoon and taking the bowl of cream, sat at His side on the bed, waiting.

 

His shoulders were bared- it had been a long time since He bothered with any shirt, save loose silken garments and wraps of ermine fur. Broad and muscular, the dreadful cloak had hidden His strength, belied His majesty with threadbare rags. Despite His warrior’s build, Melkor still had a graceful elegance of one much smaller, which wasn’t squandered by His use of a cane or the debilitation of His hands. Or the wings on His back.

 

_Those_ had certainly been a surprise.

 

With great effort Melkor heaved them up onto the bed. Mairon watched gently, trying not to reach out to help Him pull their dead weight upward. From their base near His shoulders they strained, stretching out to lie half-folded against covers in a way that was easiest for him to access. They twitched for a moment as He settled, jaw squared and His sable eyes distinctly avoiding his own. His hair fell, untucked from the pointed shell of His ear, pouring from His head in a glossy curtain that hid Him from view, the warm fire from the crackling hearth and the cold light from outside glinting in His hair sparks of violet and blue as it curved over the sharpness of a cheekbone. They sat for a moment, listening to the rhythmic outpour.

 

Mairon began with the shoulder, where they attached to His back. Vespertilionid, they had no feathers so that the long, fine bones of their arms could be seen from under delicate flesh. He sat cupped in the middle of one curved wing, reaching out to gently massage at the joint of His shoulder: the wing was as thick as a maturing birch sapling but light as paper wasp nest, frail and sickly, covered in atrophied muscle and a diaphanous membrane that glimmered like ice. He kneaded them firmly with a thin layer of the cream, trailing his fingers along the arm, the deteriorating barb of His thumb, along each of the narrow fingers. He would have trailed along all of those tiny capillaries, washed-out blue and blood-violet, if only to have the tips of those wings keep from quivering. But alas, Melkor moved the wing away so that it alluded his warm hands, the only indication Mairon ever got that he was to move on to the next one.

 

By the end of the second wing, Mairon hoped, the opium and belladonna would have subdued that terrible impuissance, the pattern of the rain that only Melkor could discern from its randomness would work to deepen His breath, and the gentle, oiled pressure of his hands would have reassured Him. He hummed in subdued murmurs a promise of fortune, lulling no louder than the distant thunder, no more disturbing then the light air. He was not only His black despair, the marring of His body, the spent fragments of His soul. He only needed to be reminded.

 

_In the black wind the stars shall die,_

_and still on gold here let them lie,_

_till the Dark Lord lifts His hand_

_over dead sea and withered land._

 

Melkor leaned against him, skin the touch of frost. He had long been finished with both wings, with the charcoaled burns on His hands, with the embossed scars of His chest. But He didn’t seem to notice that Mairon’s hands wondered along His body with no destination, only a goal to comfort, an elixir for oblivion. He stroked back raven-dark hair, sleek and iridescent as an oil-spill to reveal features at last unwound: eyes closed, a fan of black on a cheek of mountain snow, crinkles evidence of ancient wisdom rather than furrowed pain, the severe cut of His lips softened for a hazy curve. Mairon continued to hum, but his veins rushed with the exhilaration of his success and his music faltered for but a moment. How he longed to see such peace!

 

But Melkor heard, as if that infinitely tiny interlude were a pause of eternity, as if that momentary hitch in Mairon’s husky drone reminded Him of the thick scar breaking the dusky pink of His lips, of the knotted flesh along the length of His cheek that He felt ruined the stateliness of His profile, as if those twisted more than just His flesh. For the first time that night their eyes met, vibrant gold crossed with tarnished silver: was there any hope for rebirth, as those pools of aurum spoke? Could His aching bones and ruined body ever be healed? How cruel it was that Eru willed Time flow ever forward!

 

And Mairon’s eyes were so careful a glow, so faint yet insistent a whisper. Never had any of His agonies been mirrored in those amber flames, never had they wavered in overcast skies or violent tempest. He was so close now, pressed against one side, sultry like the heat of infernal fires, all but leaning into His lap as he kneeled on the bed. This close, He could make out all the little features of his face: the shape of each freckle, the two darker ones on the crest of one cheek and above his lip; the way the corners of his mouth folded; the hairs of his brows. How perfect he was, how divine.

 

How undeserving was He, ugly and lame.

 

Melkor looked away, tore His eyes and thoughts from surrendering to something so _precious._ But then, a breath was on His neck, and two legs bracketed His own, and a weight settled in His lap. What He felt along His flesh were kisses, hot and desperate, unwilling to be pushed away carelessly or ignored. That was not the rain, but a pulse, but the rush of feverish, needy blood racing in His aching veins.

 

_“You are beautiful,”_ the voice said, and Melkor let Himself believe it.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've had this useless-wing-hidden-under-cape idea for a while, possibly inspired by that flight scene in "Seduction to Destruction" by EveningAlchemist (read this!!!! it's one of my favorites!). I think that he lost the ability to fly after the destruction of the lamps, though you can think of scenarios as you like- perhaps it symbolizes his disconnect with Manwë.  
> I'm also undecided on if this should be some distant Middle-Earth future where they are healing or in the later days of Angband. I just didn't want to write about the Silmaril-drama :P  
> The title and the little "tune" Mairon was humming is sung by the barrow-wight in the Chapter "Fog On The Barrow-Downs" in the Fellowship of the Ring :D  
> ***


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